


How Many Ifs Make A Definite? (or, if you squint you see me)

by lowi



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1936068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowi/pseuds/lowi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall befriends an entire unit in five days, Harry is awfully sensitive when he's drunk and thinks the world is out to get him, Liam is Captain America, Zayn can't cook but brings lovely casseroles with him anyway.</p><p>Or, the one where Louis is in Afghanistan (and falls apart) and Nick is in London (and falls apart).</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Many Ifs Make A Definite? (or, if you squint you see me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MediaWhore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediaWhore/gifts).



**11JUL14, 1634a (local time). Tuesday. United Kingdom, London, Oxford Circus Station, platform 5**

At first, Nick doesn’t react when his phone’s vibrating in his pocket. He’s sat at a bench by the wall, all by himself. To be fair, most people don’t use the benches in the subway; the tube is too frequent for there to be any longer periods of waiting, and also, people tend to want to be closer to the platform’s edge, not behind, like this, since they then might not get on the train.

Nick would, usually, also be standing there, itching to get home. Sure, he’d let any old lady board the car before him, and happily give up his place to anyone preggers, but he’d be lying if he claimed he’s never put an elbow in someone’s ribs in the haste to get on the crammed train.

But it’s different now, isn’t it? There’s not going to be anyone there, waiting for him when he finally gets home, away from busy central London and its bustling streets; the lights will be out, the house will be chilly after being empty all day, and there will be no sounds, except for the one’s he’ll make himself. (And those will echo strangely, as though they are out of place.)

Nick often does this, or at least he’s done this a lot recently: ends up sitting on one of the benches down in the subway, and staring without really seeing at the endless stream of people going away, and arriving, who all have a set goal, who so clearly want to, or need to, be somewhere. He doesn’t.

When he watches the doors close at the now packed train in front of him, he at last reacts and hauls up his phone from his pocket. ‘Styles,’ the screen says, and there’s a picture of Harry: curls darker than usual due to sweat; wild-eyed, drunk-off-his-head Harry.

‘Hiya,’ Nick says after pressing the answer-button and noticing how pale his fingers are. He’s never that tanned. It’d always look mesmerising, his pale fingers intertwined with golden-brown ones.

Harry makes some kind of greeting murmur into the phone; then, which isn’t really like Harry, he says, ‘So, I listened to your Nixtape this morning on the bus.’ It’s too exact, too straight-forward, to be Harry.

Nick stands up, hoping it’ll make him feel a bit more in control. He forces his voice to sound like it’s supposed to: slightly harsh, lots of snarky, joking undertones. ‘What a fan you are, Styles! Listening to my show when it’s not airing but in the _archives_!’ Nick didn’t know it was possible to emphasise ‘archive’ that much, but apparently it works, because Harry chuckles a bit.

‘No, but, Grimmy, listen.’ Now it’s sounding more like the Harry Nick’s used to. ‘I was listening, like, my bus rides take forever, you know that. Plus your music taste is, eh, rather nice to wake up to, like all house and techno and chart pop, eh, and stuff. You lot always think I only listen to, like, obscure indie pop but I’ve never said that, have I? I mean, I like both. Both are nice.’

Nick only makes a committed sound into the phone. Hearing Harry talk makes it feel as though time is moving again, not just sluggishly crawling forward, almost frozen, and he looks up at the screen to see that the next train will arrive in two minutes.

‘Anyway,’ Harry mumbles. ‘I don’t know if you, er, or anyone else, like, noticed?’

‘Noticed what?’ Nick chirps. He can do this; he can sound normal and cheerful, as though he’s only chatting to one of his lads on the phone for a bit, of course he can.

‘That, eh, there was a bit of a theme going on with the tunes. Or, like, at least quite a few of them. You know which ones I mean, don’t you?’ Harry suddenly sounds further away from Nick.

‘Which ones?’

‘Eh, well, “Sunday, Bloody Sunday,” and, eh, that one by Metallica. And “Mosh”. Right? You get it, don’t you?’

Nick wants to respond that he’s always been into U2 and Metallica, Harry should know that, and he wants to add in his prickliest voice, ‘Well, sue me for playing Eminem.’ But he doesn’t; he says quietly ‘Yeah, I do.’ He’s not being himself, but, on the other hand, neither is Harry, not quite.

Harry hums a bit on his side of the line. It sounds vaguely like there’s a TV on in the background, but still, Nick can tell Harry is completely tuned in on this conversation. No distractions, not changing the subject randomly. ‘Well, so I was also thinking, do you, like, wanna come over for dinner tonight?’ He pauses for a bit, however not long enough for Nick to say something. ‘Found this recipe, with tofu and grapefruit; I’ve been dying to try it, but I don’t, like, want to make it just for myself.’

Nick stares at the train that’s just opened its doors in front of him. They’ll close any minute now. Usually, he’d be on that train, probably sending a text that he’s ‘soon home babe!!! u better have dinner ready’ followed by the ladybug emoticon or the snake one, and then stare at his phone until it lit up with ‘oh what u gonna do if its not finished u old prick’ or a string of unrelated emoticons.

The doors begin to close, and he’s not on the tube. A man in a suit rushes past him, bag hitting his elbow, a short, ‘Sorry, mate!’ yelled over his shoulder just as he squeezes in on one of the cars on the end of the train.

‘Nick?’ Harry says. ‘Still there?’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll be at yours in half an hour.’ When he’s hanged up, he practically runs up the escalators.

\--

**19JUL14, 0709d (local time). Monday. Afghanistan, HQ Bannu**

Louis is scratching his leg as hard as he can, but the thick fabric of his trousers makes it feel pointless, like he’s not achieving anything. The blond next to him, the Irish guy that managed to befriend pretty much everyone in the unit after the first day – and has therefore baffled Louis quite a lot, gives Louis a crooked smile.

‘Mate, either the fabric’s gonna break or your fingernails are. Just a head’s up.’

Louis gets the hint. He sits up, and tries to ignore how much it’s itching and pushes his legs in beneath the wooden bench on which they’re sat. ‘Just those bloody mosquitos. My tentmate forgot to close the tent this morning before he went on his morning run, so when I woke up an hour later I was covered in bites. You should see my bum; it’s absolutely whacked.’

The guy laughs, and Louis sort of understands why he’s always seen surrounded by a whole bunch of people. The laughter, it’s… warming. Welcoming. ‘No need to pull your pants down, I’ll take your word for it. Your trashed body aside, you saying that that guy went for a run before wake-up call? Voluntarily?’

Louis squints in the blaring sunlight. ‘Yup. He’s, like, Captain America or something.’

‘Oh, wait! You’re talking about Payne, aren’t you?’ The lad looks absolutely thrilled, and Louis is still, or maybe once more, baffled.

‘Yeah, d’you know him?’

‘Sure do, or, well, as good as you can know anyone you’ve met just five days ago.’ He looks at Louis like he’ll know exactly what he means, but Louis isn’t the one who was transferred from another division five days ago and already know more people than Louis do – and Louis is neither socially incompetent nor a loner; these five weeks he’s been awfully social and been to all optional ‘bonding’ events – he’s even got himself a nickname, and if that isn’t proof of his inclusion, Louis doesn’t know what is. But this guy, he is something else.

Louis hums non-committedly, closing his eyes in the angry sun. It’s early in the morning, but, still, it’s got to be nearing 30 degrees.

Then he feels a hand poking his shoulder; the guy has stretched out his hand and smiles brightly. ‘I don’t know you, though! Me name’s Niall, nice t’meet you.’

‘Louis,’ Louis says, finding that he doesn’t need to force a smile to appear. It comes automatically, as though he can’t help it; it’s rather wondrous, really. ‘Glad to’ve met you, too.’

Niall squints at him for a while, as though he’s trying to figure out something. ‘What’s your last name?’

‘Tomlinson,’ Louis says. He doesn’t feel bothered by it, no, to be honest, this whole conversation has made something within him settle – and now that he thinks about it, his mosquito bites aren’t even itching anymore.

Niall lights up (even more than before, impressively). ‘The Tommo! ‘S you, right?’

Louis can’t help but smile. ‘Yeah, sure.’

Niall shakes his head a little, muttering something sounding like ‘knew there was summat’ and then he says, ‘So, who’s the infamous Tommo gonna spend his precious Internet minutes on?’

Louis leans his head back against the wall again, not saying anything. He closes his eyes.

Niall, to the right of him, says, ‘As for meself, I’m gonna call up me brother. He promised he’d be up even though it’s so bloody early over there. Or late, depending on how you see it, I guess! I bet you my right arm he’s gonna be asleep. Or drunk; oh, last time, it was hilarious, he was absolutely pissed; he was rambling on about how I had to get there as soon as possible, and I was just like, yeah, man, sure I’ll come to “that pub on the corner you know with the purple-haired bartender.”’ Niall is saying the last part in a much darker voice than his own, and Louis opens his eyes slightly to see that he’s making air-quotes with his hands.

He can just as well say it. He’s been wanting to put it out there the entire time, but he’s not, like, found the right moment. He doesn’t either want to wait much longer.

The sunlight hits the side of Niall’s face, and he holds up a hand to shade himself, smiling kindly towards Louis again.

‘I,’ Louis begins, not moving an inch, closing his eyes again, ‘I’m gonna call my fiancé.’ Before Niall has time to respond, he adds, ‘Haven’t spoken to him in three weeks, miss him like crazy.’

For a couple of seconds there’s absolute silence between them, and Louis has time to begin to regret it. He didn’t have to tell precisely who he was going to call on Skype, did he? Oh fuck, can the guy before him be done with the computer soon, or what? Fucking douche, that one, Miller or whatever his name is; he’s probably having cybersex with his on-and-off girlfriend or something equally pointless. Louis wants to speak to Nick. Now. Louis _needs_ to speak to Nick. Louis needs to hear Nick say that it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter he’s told this Irish bloke that he’s gay because they live in the 21 st fucking century and even bloody America allows homosexuals in the army now, so come on. And he needs to hear Nick’s voice. That is all. So can that fucking prick in there just _please_ hurry the fuck up?

Then Niall says, ‘Oh boy, I don’t understand you guys who can be in the army and in a relationship as well. Like, you gotta be so strong to do that, seriously, I get mad impressed whenever someone tells me that.’

And then, then that’s that, and Niall keeps blubbering about that one girl from his last unit who had her wife back home, and then about some other guy, with two kids, and Louis just listens, and feels lighter than ever.

\--

**19JUL14, 0353a (local time), Monday. United Kingdom, London, Primrose Hill, 2 Chalcot Crescent**

Louis’ icon is still in the list of offline contacts. Sure, Louis had said that he’d probably not be on until four a.m., but he’s also told Nick that the unit’s computer time begins at two thirty, Nick’s time, and even though they have to follow a specific order, maybe everyone before Louis decided to skip using the computer today and instead have a sleep-in? So, surely, Nick wouldn’t not guard the computer like a hawk during the entire time, because what if Louis would tell him that he did get on earlier and that, when Nick finally logs on, there’s only three minutes left for them.

Nick would, not to overreact or anything, die. No, really, those terrifyingly early Monday mornings (which are actually on the verge of being Sunday nights) every third week have become the only thing that matters, actually. Last night, Nick had been trying to sleep early, after setting multiple alarms, but it was so quiet – and yet so loud – in the house that he just couldn’t. He went up, drank a glass of milk and doodled moustaches or glasses on every single person in the newspaper.

Then he ran three miles on the treadmill, his body so jittery he actually beat his personal record. (Not that his record is that good to begin with, but still. He still wants to tell Louis about it. He wants Louis to be there, to drawl to him that he’s still miles off _his_ record, but then when Nick starts to pout peck him and say, with a much softer voice, that he’s doing well.) Nick’s body is always a bit edgy, nerves electrically buzzing in his body, those few days before Skype with Louis but, to be honest, it’s not only a few days anymore; it’s started to become a constant. He just can’t relax anymore. He knows he’s become meaner, especially on air. Fincham even had an ‘official emergency meeting’ with him about it. It wasn’t that official, and had not really the air of being an emergency-thing either, as they went for a coffee on Starbucks and Matt made (in his own opinion) a hilarious noise when Nick asked for ‘extra sugar and, oh, that lovely caramel syrup also, please?’ For the record, the noise Finchy made sounded like a dying koala bear, and when Nick told him that, he asked ‘Have you ever heard a dying koala?’ and the girl working had to clear her throat rather loudly to regain their attention.

But still. Nick knows he’s making snide remarks much more recently, and that he’s been rather harsh in his comments more on a regular basis than before when it was one of his trademarks, but still just occasionally. Now it’s like it’s become _him_ , entirely. He went out with Harry last Friday, and it ended up with Harry in tears. Zayn had to come pick him up. In Nick’s defence, they were both pretty drunk – which makes him meaner (most often at least; there are a few weird nights when he’s only made puns. Yeah, only made puns. Nothing else. Those nights Louis was there, though, on every single one of them) and makes Harry terribly sensitive. Like, that one time someone stepped on Harry’s toe and he started sobbing that ‘Maybe that girl hates me; maybe she’d actually planned that. How can you be so sure it was an accident, Nick?’

Louis’ icon hasn’t changed a bit; it’s still annoyingly white. It’s weird, Nick thinks, how everything becomes more intense just before he’s going to talk to Louis. He’s not, as implied, slept a minute tonight, and he’s been thinking so much more than what he usually does. Like, was this another day, everything would be a bit greyer, and the world would feel muted.

But now it is as though he can see every grain of dust floating in the air, glittering when the early sun beams hit them through the window. He’s sitting in the kitchen, MacBook on the glass table, black teacup next to it with half of the tea remaining in it, now cold.

It’s kind of peaceful. There’s nothing he can do, he’s completely powerless. Louis won’t be on until he’ll be on, and Nick can only wait. They’ve had sex on this table. Louis has been writhing in Nick’s hands in this kitchen.

Louis still hasn’t logged on.

Louis has been sitting on the counters, more times than Nick can count to, waiting for Nick to finish cooking and been throwing away sly comments about Nick’s bum whenever Nick’s bent down to get a plate or a whisk from the lowest drawers.

Nick can only wait.

Or, Louis has sleepily arrived in the doorway, duvet wrapped around him like a cocoon, coming up to hug Nick from behind when Nick’s been planning to get him breakfast in bed, and then letting the duvet slide down so Nick comes to the understanding that Louis hasn’t been wearing a lot more underneath.

Or, Nick’s been awoken by the fire alarm, and running into the kitchen to find smoke cascading out of the oven and Louis furiously batting a dish towel in its general direction, with every window set open. And then yelling at Nick to go away and leave him alone, that he’ll fix it, and then the fire alarm finally stopping and the two of them cleaning up a bit, Nick mocking Louis mercilessly, and Louis actually looking hurt, mumbling that he’d just wanted to surprise Nick, and Nick realising that there are tears in his eyes, which Louis is, to this day, claiming there wasn’t.

Louis still hasn’t logged on and there’s a lump in Nick’s throat and it stings behind his eyes. He can’t be crying when he’s talking to Louis, he can’t.

He looks at the stainless counter surrounding the sink. He can’t.

Louis still hasn’t logged on.

\--

**04AUG14, 0153d (local time), Wednesday. Afghanistan, HQ Bannu**

The mosquito bites healed a long time ago, and Liam has learned to close his and Louis’ tent when he leaves for his morning jogs, but Louis is still scratching at his leg. Not so intensely, more like dragging his fingers up and down his calf, with his leg propped up beneath him.

He pulled off his boots hours ago, even though it’s against protocol, but no one would tell him off, not now, would they? And it’s so late – or, early – that there aren’t a lot of people in the hospital. Someone marches past every now and then, but then it’s hurried, with a set goal in mind, so no one stops to look at Louis’ bare feet, one dangling with only the tip of his toe reaching the cold stone floor. There was a nurse that did stop, earlier, who looked at Liam with a pensive face, then returned with a pillow after a few minutes, and Louis mouthed a ‘thank you’ to him, and then propped the pillow between his shoulder and Liam’s head. Liam is still there, mouth hanging slightly agape, and the wound next to his left eye making it look as though that eye is much wider.

Louis hasn’t slept a bit. They’ve been here since eleven p.m., when the chopper finally landed on the hospital’s roof, and they saw Niall being wheeled away on a stretcher. No one’s said a word to them since, and they don’t really want to ask, nor do they know what to ask. Liam, who had been marching up and down the tiny corridor earlier, white tank-top plastered to his body, almost see-through because of sweat, and quickly stepping aside as soon as someone wanted to pass him, had, after perhaps forty-five minutes, sat down next to Louis abruptly, and then, without Louis really noticing it, fallen asleep, with his head rolling over to Louis’ shoulder.

It’s not that Louis wouldn’t want to sleep; no, he’d gladly do so. He feels wrecked, but as soon as he closes his eyes, thinking that he should get some precious rest (really, up to this point Louis has been able to fall asleep anywhere – his commander even praised him for that one day he’d fallen asleep in the chopper, saying that ‘yup, that’s a good soldier right there, making the most of time’ and then she’d said that they could never know when they’d get some sleep next time, and had really no one told them this in training?), he just seems to replay the moment over and over again, the moment when Niall suddenly crashes into his side, and Louis grunts out a ‘The fuck, Ni?’ and then, when Niall grabs his arm, and Louis actually stops and turns around. And sees Niall’s face, paler than usual (even though the Middle East sun has given him a sunburn several times, he’s just got a faint string of freckles across his nose and cheeks), couple of blood drops glimmering there. And sees him pressing his other hand, the one that’s not clutching Louis’ so hard he’s sure he’ll get a bruise, against his thigh, blood there as well. Much more blood.

So Louis can’t sleep.

Liam’s weight on him, though, is rather nice. It’s grounding. If it hadn’t been there, Louis is fairly sure he’d, like, not been able to stay. And he wants to stay; he wants someone to come over to them and tell them that Niall is fine, and do they want to come in and see him now?

But no one has been there yet, not for the nearly three hours they’ve been there. He looks down at Liam, and the dog tags that he can see clearly through the tank top which still is a bit damp against Louis’ skin. He kind of wants to fish out his own dog tags from beneath his undershirt, but he doesn’t want to wake Liam. On the other hand, just seeing Liam’s tags reminds him of the thin gold ring that he’s hanged on the same chain.

If Nick was here, he’d been even more grounded, and he wouldn’t have felt as though every single breath gets stuck somewhere in between his ribs; Louis knows that.

The way they met was a bit chaotic, and Louis tends not to think about it too much. Not that he and Nick don’t find it hilarious – it’s just that, well, now that he’s away, actually out there on the field, he doesn’t want to think too much about anything related to Nick. Now he can’t help it though, not when every breath he draws hurts, and Niall’s been shot.  So he thinks about the way they met, tries to will the images to become clear in his mind, tries to see Nick’s face exactly as it looked then, almost four years ago.

Louis had been dragged along to a club by Zayn, his best friend, who had promised it would be great, that he would love it, plus, Louis had a couple of nights ago agreed to be Zayn’s wingman, because there was this ‘fit lad called Harry, like, you should see his curls, they’re outta this world, Lou.’ So Louis had followed, but well there he’d felt extremely out of place; sure, Zayn had tried to include him but since Louis already had felt like he didn’t belong with all the artists (‘hipsters, the whole bunch’, he had told Zayn who just had rolled his eyes) and people he suspected were at least half-celebrities since he vaguely recognised them, he became snappy and left Zayn to chat with Harry about his latest exhibition down in Camden town or whatnot.

He closes his eyes. He shouldn’t be thinking about this; really, he shouldn’t. It’ll make him miss Nick so much he won’t be able to breathe.

But Niall is shot. And there was so much blood.

He’d gone up to the bar and ordered a drink, when a man had turned around, frowned at him, and said, ‘Mind you,’ even though Louis hadn’t even touched him when leaning closer to the bartender to place his order. Not Louis’ fault they’d played so loud music he couldn’t hear his own thoughts. He’d rolled his eyes, and turned the other way.

He opens his eyes again, to the glaring white fluorescent lights. He shouldn’t be thinking about Nick. But it’s either that, or thinking about Niall. Niall who is shot. Niall who might be – no, he can’t think about Niall.

Louis couldn’t quite remember how exactly the events had played out after that first exchange, but he knew that Nick (because _of course_ that man was Nick) had said something else, not wanting to let it go, and then Louis had snapped back – Nick had insulted his _length_ for fuck’s sake, and then Nick had said, ‘I’m not gonna punch you because you’re so little, but I’ll have you know –“ and then Louis had jabbed his fist into Nick’s stomach.

Louis tries to make a fist out of his fingers right where he is, presses his finger nails into the skin of his palm, but the skin on the back of his hand is oddly tight, as though it won’t be stretched. He looks down at his right arm, the one Liam is leaning on, and pushes up his sleeve of his jacket with his other hand. There’s dried blood covering the back of it, and when he does the same movement again, making a fist out of the hand, there becomes cracks in the dark red, almost black, blood. He wonders if it’s his or Niall’s.

He shouldn’t be thinking of Niall.

Nick and Louis, they’d been thrown out of the club, of course they had, bouncers big as blocks just herding them outside into the icy London air, not listening when Nick started to go on about his coat still being in the wardrobe. Louis had been furious, about to start walking home; he was not going to flag down a taxi because what if the dickhead wanted to share one? Plus, he didn’t want to be near the guy for any period of time. But then, then he’d heard Zayn yell his name, and someone stumble over the words ‘Oh my god, did he kill Nick?’ but still getting his note of trembling panic across very well.

Louis looks at Liam for a while. He tries closing his eyes, but the strip lights have been imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, and it’s too white, too bright. He wishes he could go somewhere completely dark. He wishes he could be in bed, beneath every cover and duvet possible, so it would be pitch black and warm and cosy, like a nest. Now that he’s started, he can’t stop thinking about Nick.

Nick had been sliding down against the bricked wall, and Louis could’ve punched him again when he said, out of air, that Louis sure had some muscles for being so short. Zayn had, luckily, managed to grab Louis’ arm before Louis would’ve stormed up to Nick again, and said, ‘Gonna take you home, alright?’ Louis would’ve responded that it wasn’t alright at all, that this Nick-person had been a twat, but Zayn’s eyes had been so firm, like stones, so he’d just given in and not said another word, not even when it was just the two of them in a taxi at last, after Zayn’s awkward goodbye to Harry.

He can’t stop thinking about Nick. It’s like an itch beneath his skin, an itch that makes him want to crawl out of his own body, out of this place. A beep from one of the rooms across the corridor and Louis squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to focus on the weight of Liam on his shoulder. Niall is in there, somewhere, Louis is out here, Nick is hundreds of miles away, and the beep echoes in his brain.

The following day, Louis had come to the shocking realisation that Nick was the guy on Radio One’s Breakfast Show. That that same voice that just now babbled to some construction worker about Olly Murs was the voice that had told Louis yesterday night he was ‘the tiniest motherfucker ever’. For some reason, this had left Louis fuming.

And from there, it had just spiralled.

Louis takes a deep breath, inhales the scent of dust, the scent that he’s not really noticing anymore, the scent that’s been clinging to him for what feels like forever, the scent that’s all around him, always. But here, in the hospital, it mixes strangely with cleaning fumes and something stickier, something more _human_.

Louis had got Nick’s number out of Harry, by the means of nagging Zayn into making Harry text Louis it, which he did, adding a ‘happy to help!x’ which had bewildered Louis slightly – he’d never spoken to Harry, and the lad had worried Louis had _killed_ his friend. Nick had quickly grasped that it was Louis – or ‘the pygmy with a mean right hook! nice ta hear from ya’ – who’d texted him ‘Mind you, didn’t know radio people were allowed to be cunts’. Yes, spiralled was what had happened. The day before Louis’ leave of absence ended, Nick had texted ‘I hope you’re having a wee day! oops I meant great dk how that happened! but it’s fitting, innit?’ and Louis hadn’t responded.

Another deep breath. Nick. Nick. Louis traces his jawline, tries to count every single hair in his stubble, tries to feel something. Niall is in there. Another loud beep, a door being slammed. They had to be clean-shaven when he was in training; here they’ve been told to grow beards, but Louis shaves every now and then, always before his Skype calls to Nick, even though the connection is so bad they can hardly see anything but weird-looking shapes on the screen. But since Louis knows (that knowledge alone can be felt deep in his bones, and every time it makes something inside him shiver, every time he _knows_ ) that it is Nick he’s looking at, he can fill in the gaps himself. Since he _knows_. The beeps become louder. Niall is in there.

However, when Louis had got back from training again for another couple of weeks off, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to text Nick back, even though he’d been planning his response carefully during that month away. Every night he’d come up with something new, something wittier, something edgier. A few of them he’d written down in the tiny notebook he kept in the side pocket on his trousers. But when he was back, though, he’d been feeling another type of tiredness, something that clung not only to his bones but to his mind as well. A dragging, slow, consuming tiredness. The first few days back in London he didn’t even leave his flat; he ordered take-away and slept fifteen hours a night, like a new-born. He’d phoned Zayn on the underground from Liverpool Street Station, standing by one of the windows with his bag up on his shoulder, staring out the window without actually seeing anything. And Zayn had complied, and not showed up at Louis’ place until three days later, but then he was heavily loaded with a clinking bag of wine bottles in one hand and a homemade casserole in the other. Louis had loved the food, finished it to the last bite, and the wine had probably left him a bit tipsy as well, but it hadn’t been an overstatement when they’d laid on the sofa, Louis’ head on Zayn’s lap, and he had told Zayn how happy he was. To be there – that Zayn was there – home.

Liam moves a little next to Louis, rubbing his nose against Louis’ shoulder. He breathes slowly, chest rising and sinking. Niall is shot. Niall is shot.

Zayn, eyes scrunched up and hair softly falling into his eyes, had tapped Louis shoulder absentmindedly as he’d said, ‘Hey, just ‘cause I bring food and wine, you go all cheesy and give me some long-awaited appreciation? Should’ve done this long ago, in that case.’ Louis, not quite feeling that clinging, sticky tiredness anymore, but another, warmer one, had mumbled, ‘Didn’t know you're such a great cook.’ And then Zayn had, with a faint blush spreading up his neck, murmuring in the same fashion as Louis’ last words, explained it was Harry who’d made it.

Louis wants to go home. Niall is shot. Shot. No one is opening the door behind which they wheeled the stretcher earlier. Louis was going to get a flight back to England in just a week and Niall and Liam were going to be on that same plane, their year being served, and Nick was going to be waiting for Louis at the airport, most likely holding a rude sign to welcome him. But Niall is shot, and there are just so many ifs.

Liam opens his eyes and stares at Louis for a few seconds, the look in his eyes wild, as though he doesn’t know where they are. When he finally blinks and relaxes his body which has tensed up against Louis’ shoulder, Louis shakes his head shortly, and Liam winces, as though in pain.

\--

**05AUG14, 0628a (local time), Thursday. United Kingdom, London, London Underground somewhere between South Kensington and Gloucester Road**

Nick’s called in sick. He’s not actually ill. When Nick is ill and staying home from work, he’s proper ill. Then he’d be in bed, buried beneath quilts and duvets, tissues spread across the floor, and most importantly moaning terribly. If he’s just having a slight cold, he’ll go to work anyway, most likely high on painkillers or antipyretics (or both), but he wouldn’t call in sick. Over the years, he can count on one hand the times he’s not been to work due to being ill.

But today, he’s called in sick, and he’s not at home. He’s not having a fever, or the flu, nor anything that makes him so unwell he can’t move from his bed. He’s at the tube, at one of the seats by a window, and he’s on the Circle Line, meaning that he doesn’t have to get off the train at any point.

He’s been in this same seat for two hours. No one’s noticed; the car is packed, but people don’t stay on for much longer than a couple of stations.

As of now, Nick has passed the station at Baker Street thrice. This morning, there were eighteen unread emails when he checked his iPad at the kitchen table, having his ridiculously expensive Nespresso (Louis had only let him buy a machine after Nick had forced him to watch the George Clooney commercial). Eighteen wasn’t a particularly alarming number, so Nick went on Instagram and Twitter before opening the inbox. Skimming through the subject lines, nothing had stood out, until he spotted one sent just past midnight the same night.

From Louis.

Nick stares out the window. Louis was supposed to be home in just a week, but now he sent an email in the middle of the night and Nick doesn’t know what to do.

He could tell Louis had been in a hurry to write it, and it wasn’t long, not much to miss, but Nick still had read it over and over again.

_Hi baby. I miss you loads,miss you  like crazy. I’m not coming back on the 10th bc yestrday their was an incident and Niall ( I told  you abuot him didn’t I, the Irish guy) was shot and its pretty serious so he can’t be moved yet so decdided to stay a few of us. Im so sorry baby, so so so sorry, I miss you and I rly wanted to be home but I cant just yet.Ill email again when I now more. I love you more than anything.  
Lou xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Nick can hardly think about it without something starting to throb behind his forehead. Louis wrote nothing about himself, nothing about whether he was fine or not. If Niall (whoever that was; Nick couldn’t remember all those names Louis had mentioned vaguely during their Skype conversations – to be fair he never paid attention properly, being far too focused on Louis)  had been shot, wasn’t it safe to assume there had been some serious trouble so that Louis could have been hurt as well? Couldn’t Louis have understood that; couldn’t he have written just a tiny ‘I’m fine’ somewhere in that email? Couldn’t he fucking _please_ have considered how that email would look to Nick?

And also, Louis was supposed to come home. He’s been away for a goddamn year (with one week in the middle where he was home, but it’s still a _year_ ), and Nick misses him, so much, and he was supposed to come home; it’s been fifty-bloody-one weeks.

Nick misses Louis so much it aches, but Louis rather stays in fucking Afghanistan because a mate of his got shot.

Nick is his fiancé.

It becomes hard to breathe, and Nick stands up, grabs the pole next to the door and it’s possible he steps on someone’s foot as he pushes through the crowd to get nearer to the entrance. He needs to get off this train now; he ignores the angry glares; he needs to get off it this minute.

Louis is engaged to Nick and they’ve been apart for fifty one weeks but Louis doesn’t come home even though Nick is falling apart without him, and Nick doesn’t know what to do, Louis isn’t coming home – it might be another two weeks, it might be three, it might even be a month during which Nick will be alone in their too large a house: the house Nick is sick of, the house he fucking hates because it’s so empty and all the time reminding him of how Louis isn’t there. Louis isn’t coming home because some fucking army-buddy has gone and got himself shot, and Nick doesn’t know how to breathe.

He doesn’t want to think the words, because yes, he does feel like a right cunt for even letting the thought take place in his brain, but it’s as though they, the ones in Louis’ unit, mean more to Louis than Nick.

When he arrives at Harry’s flat, after walking, nearly running, there, he’s not even sure Harry’s going to be in, and he realises that Zayn might be there, but it’s not exactly like Nick can go home. He knocks on the door, waits; he wills away every thought of Louis, how they’ve stood just here together, before dinners, Louis rolling his eyes at the flowers Nick’s brought and Nick not laying off remarking that Louis looks like a proper slag in his tank top. Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it.

Harry opens, then, face blank for a few seconds, then slowly putting on a frown. Then, in a heartbeat, he draws Nick into the warmest of hugs, and Nick just lets go. (He has time to think that Harry probably knows, because Zayn could’ve told him, if Louis emailed him as well. But that Louis took time to email Zayn as well makes Nick’s fingertips sting, somehow, and when he thinks about it, he hasn’t seen Harry and Zayn together in a long while: last time was when Zayn picked Harry up from that club a while ago, but before that, it was a long while as well. Maybe Harry is psychic, or he just gets it, that something is wrong.)

Harry makes him tea and digs out biscuits and buns from a drawer, cuts up some fruit, and Nick hands him his iPhone, so he can read the email. He doesn’t want to read it himself, he’s read it too many times already, so he grabs a piece of a pear and chews loudly, and Harry looks at him a little too long, and then says, ‘D’you wanna watch a film? We could go to the cinema, the day shows are never fully booked.’

And they do, and they sit in the darkness in the cinema, and all Nick thinks of is how he’s not responded to the email.

Harry leans closer to Nick, so their elbows are touching on the armrest between their seats.

\--

**07AUG14, 1421d (local time), Saturday. Afghanistan, Kabul, Malalai Hospital Square, Moon Hotel Kabul**

The internet connection in the hotel is much better than anything Louis has experienced in, what, twenty six weeks, but there’s not really any need for it. Yet, he’s been occupying one of the booths in the vestibule for hours, refreshing his email inbox relentlessly, begging for Nick’s Skype icon to turn green.

But nothing’s changed.

They were driven here, in a large jeep, after the doctors had decided Niall needed a better hospital, not just some _Médecins sans frontières_ -base where they always are running low on morphine and personnel. The drive was long and dusty, but thankfully trouble-free. Louis was so jittery, the entire time, excited to get somewhere where he was sure he could get in touch with Nick. Liam slept the entire ride, seeming drained of energy, and strangely pale. Niall had been in the second jeep, and he’s better now, Liam and Louis went to see him yesterday at the hospital just a block away from the hotel, and he said ‘no more leapfrogging for me, innit, boys?’ and Louis couldn’t help himself from smiling back at Niall, something settling inside.

Now, though, that feeling is long gone, and it’s with shaky fingers he presses ‘refresh’ again. Liam was down there with him, earlier, tapping away on the computer next to him, asking how to spell ‘arrival’ and ‘delay’ and then leaving. Now he returns, having been away for at least an hour, carrying two Cokes. He gives one to Louis, the ice cold bottle strangely cool, almost burning against Louis’ much too warm skin. Then he sits down promptly at the chair next to Louis and says, ‘No response, huh?’

Louis just grimaces a little before taking a sip of the Coke. He’d thought he’d appreciate his first Coke after this half year without any fizzy drinks much more, but it tastes stale, bitter almost. He can’t believe Nick hasn’t responded, and maybe that’s why the stale taste is there, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he’s more upset with Nick, for not getting it, not getting how Louis has to stay, Niall is a bloody _friend_ , or more upset with himself for not having dealt with this more delicately. However, that first email he sent, he actually tried his hard to make his own frustration shine through, and, honestly, if Nick doesn’t get that, he’s a prick.

He looks up at Liam, who’s just sat there, silently, not even looking directly at Louis. ‘Not sure I really do wanna go home,’ Louis says, voice much crisper than usual, which Liam seems to notice, as he turns his head quickly, eyebrows drawn together.

‘Why?’ he asks, unnecessarily as Louis would have elaborated either way, chest filling up with heat and his vision blackening in the edges, all noises slowly becoming muted. Nick doesn’t get it; he doesn’t get what it’s like being here, what it’s like having a friend’s blood all over you; he’s home and he’s safe, and he’s not seen the things Louis has and he doesn’t know how much it hurts; there are kids killed here, every day, and Louis’s can’t stop seeing their eyes when he tries to sleep, but Nick’s not seen that; he doesn’t know, and Niall, Niall bled so much; his eyes were so strangely devoid of life; Nick doesn’t know that, hasn’t seen, doesn’t know how Louis feels.

‘I mean, army, serving, we did this for a reason, right, signing up, didn’t we?’ He doesn’t even see Liam anymore; Nick’s face is there, in his mind, and Louis feels hot all over. ‘To make a change, to help. It’s not like we’re done; it’s not like here’s any fucking peace at all. Like that village we heard of yesterday, with the school just having been barred up. I mean, _can_ we go home? Go home and feel _done_?’ His breaths are jagged, but then Liam puts a hand on his arm, having pushed his chair closer to Louis’.

His eyes are large when he stares at Louis. ‘Lou, I know,’ he says slowly. ‘I know, I know. But you do want to go back. I promise.’ He doesn’t say anything else, just holds onto Louis’ arm strongly, and sounds so sure of himself, this firm belief that he’s _right_ that Louis just can’t help to believe.

They’re two army guys in the vestibule of a hotel, who were supposed to be home in three days but they won’t be, and that’s all there is. Louis believes Liam so forcefully he, in a heartbeat, feels overwhelmed with coldness. He doesn’t want to be here.

\--

**18AUG14, 1701a (local time), Wednesday. United Kingdom, London, Camden Town, 11 Lyme Street**

Nick’s not left Harry’s flat for weeks. He’s got his share of fresh air from Harry practically pushing him, with surprisingly much force, out on the balcony, where he’s sulkily smoked a cigarette or two, then shuffled back into Harry’s dark living room (the blinds been down the entire time he’s been here, even though Harry’s complained a whole lot, saying that it won’t make it any better, won’t help Nick at all but rather make it all worse. But he’s not rolled them up either, when Nick’s told him to please let them be, so).

Finchy was rather mad when Nick said he’d have to take a break from work entirely, that he wouldn’t be able to do it, but in the end of their conversation, when Nick was absolutely exhausted from trying to convince Matt he wasn’t able to come in, not even to make one show where he could ‘at least explain the circumstances in some neat way’, then Fincham’s voice had at least softened when he said, ‘Well, phone me as soon as Grimmy starts to return to life, okay?’

For the record, Grimmy hasn’t started to return to life. If Harry hadn’t been around, forcing him to eat his pies and omelettes and special-fajitas-with-mustard and taking a bath every now and then, Nick thinks he’d been even further from returning to life. Now he’s at least eating healthily (his first choice of comfort foods does not include any fibres whatsoever, and Harry’s meals are very often including some fibre-rich protein-high vegan soy milk or whatever) and not suffocating in his own body odours.

To be fair, Nick can’t actually believe that Harry is doing all this to him. He’s come to understand that Harry’s not been feeling very well himself lately, what with the way he’s sometimes staring at his phone with a frown, and that one time Nick was going to borrow a jumper from him, so he just picked one up from the floor, but Harry just froze, then walked over and grabbed it from Nick, and told Nick to find something else. Nick is pretty sure it has something to do with Zayn, but when he thinks about that he starts thinking about Louis, and he doesn’t want that. So.

He’s not sure if he’s still mad at Louis for not coming home, or if it’s just that he misses Louis so much that he therefore is mad, like, mad at himself for not being mad in the proper way. Either way, there is a tight ball in his chest that’s not gone away since Louis sent that first email. Nick doesn’t know if he wants it to go away, or if he’s maybe actually holding onto it, trying to force it to stay there, safely behind his ribs, since it at least makes him feel _something_. At the very least less vulnerable, because when it’s there, he can tell himself he’s protecting it so he’ll be ready to unleash it, that there is some strength and fierceness within him. Somewhere. Instead of just that other feeling of betrayal, that he can feel gnawing on his insides, all the time, not ever fucking stopping.

There’s some rustle at the door, and then Harry walks into the dim living room, carrying lots of grocery bags, really weighed down by them. Nick thinks that maybe it’s not only the groceries that he’s weighed down by – maybe the fact that his friend’s shut himself up in his flat, intoxicating the place with grey thoughts and sadness, is also heavy as stones on Harry’s shoulders. If Nick wasn’t Nick, and there still was a Nick in Harry’s flat, the non-Nick would kick the Nick out of Harry’s flat, because he hates seeing Harry like this. But this Nick just can’t do anything about it; he knows it his fault, but it’s also, maybe more so, Louis’ fault.

‘Hi,’ he says, voice raspier than usual – but then again, it’s the first word he’s said today, and he’s always sounding hoarse in the mornings. Got nothing to do with how there’s a lump in his throat and how it stings behind his eyes. Again.

Harry sits down on the sofa, after dropping the canvas bags at the floor, and pats Nick’s legs a little absentmindedly, staring at the turned-off TV, their eyes meeting in the reflection in the black screen. Nick’s not quite sure they’re actually meeting though, because it’s hard to tell, and maybe Harry’s just staring into nothingness.

‘Hey,’ Harry says. ‘D’you want tea?’ He’s still not moving, not looking at Nick, and his voice is oddly flat, syllables wider than usual, eyes slightly squinting as though he’s focusing at something far away, or something really close.

Nick says nothing, pokes his toes against Harry’s thigh and lets them rest there, bare skin pressed against Harry’s jeans-clad legs.

Harry speaks up again, still forming his words slower than usual, as though the words don’t quite fit in his mouth. ‘Nick, are you sure… D’you quite know what you’re doing? I… I don’t want to –‘ He pauses; Nick doesn’t know what to say, tells himself he doesn’t know what Harry’s talking about, then Harry takes a deep, almost panicked breath, and turns to look at Nick for the first time this morning.

‘Nick,’ he says. ‘I – I don’t want to tell you what to do, never wanted to, you know that. Never wanted to intrude, still don’t want to. But, seriously, this, you, like this, it’s… I just want to say you shouldn’t mess up, you shouldn’t just give up, you were, the two of you, so, so –‘ His eyes are suddenly red-rimmed, and Nick still doesn’t know what to say, but Harry looks close to crying and he knows it’s not just his fault but he can’t have Harry crying, not _Harry_ , Harry, who’s the most wonderful person in the world, not Harry. ‘Nick, you can’t fuck up.’ Harry’s voice is thick, but his tone is firm now, not shaky, not so many stuttering pauses between the words. ‘You can’t just _let_ yourself fuck up. Please, I know it, you are not like me and –‘ He doesn’t finish, just draws his arms up and then closes his eyes, a sob suddenly vibrating through his entire being, long lanky Harry is there next to Nick, crying, and Nick sits up, quickly, winds his arms around Harry and he might be crying as well, he’s not sure, and they sit there, together, for so long, and then, when Harry’s dried his tears Nick whispers that they’ll fix it, _all_ of it, and he thinks Harry maybe gets it, because he nods and then he rolls up the blinds and Nick doesn’t protest but finds that the sun beams are making it feel as though he’s waking up from a fever dream.

\--.

**26AUG14, 1444a (local time), Thursday. United Kingdom, London, Heathrow Airport**

If it hadn’t been for Niall’s cackling laughter on his side, just having cracked a mediocre joke about his crutches (something about extended arms and bayonets, Louis didn’t quite listen, but it was nice, nice hearing Niall laugh like that, so bright, so happy, always, so reliable) and Liam’s steady eyes on Louis, Louis isn’t sure he’d been able to get off the plane and through all the security, flipping his passport open and being scanned, grabbing his rucksack from the baggage trail and then, then going through the final gates. The gates leading away from that kind of limbo that airports really are, not properly belonging to any country; more like tiny countries all by themselves.

Louis is pretty sure if it hadn’t been for the two of them, he would, at some point, just have stopped moving, breath caught in his throat and too scared to move on. Now, now he’s automatically putting one foot in front of another; Liam’s so close to him their elbows are touching, and Niall looks over his shoulder the entire time to grin at them, something about him bouncy and springy even though he’s limping slowly forward. Still, Louis is shit scared, and he’s clutching his bag ever so tightly. Just a while longer and they’ll be out there, in the real world, with people everywhere, waiting for their loved ones to arrive. Liam had said he’d be picked up by his sisters; Niall had spoken vaguely about some mate of his, Bressie, saying he hoped he’d be there in time but he didn’t trust him too much. Then again, he’d added, Niall was now an invalid and people should ‘show some respect, shouldn’t they?’ and he’d finished by cackling again, and Louis thinks that if he hadn’t been so busy trembling in his seat , feeling the outer shell of the airplane crushing in on him since it was now impossible to do anything else – they _were_ going home, if he hadn’t been so busy thinking about this over and over again, he might have noticed that there was something strange about Niall’s laughter, something manic over it, and that it didn’t reach his eyes the way it used to. It’s like that now, on the verge of hysterical, as well, but Louis isn’t – _can’t_ pay attention to it, because he needs Niall to be dependable, to be a constant of _brightness_ , or else he doesn’t know what will happen.

What if Nick isn’t there, what if Nick isn’t there, what if Nick isn’t there; it’s just another turn, and they’ll be in the waiting area.

Louis’s sent Nick so many emails; in another time he’d think of himself as embarrassing, clingy, desperate, but now, now there’s so little pride left that there is only that: desperation, because Nick didn’t respond to even one of them. In the last one Louis told Nick the time he’d be at the airport, and he finished by writing _Nick I am so sorry so terribly sorry I love you so much I know I hurt you but please please you have to forgive me I love you please be at the airport I don’t know what I’ll do if your not there I miss you so much babe I love you so much_ and before pressing send he was so close to deleting all of that last paragraph, but in the end he just moved the pointer to the ‘send’ button, closed his eyes, and pressed it.

What if Nick isn’t there; what will he actually do? Liam pushes his elbow a little closer against Louis and now, now they’re out there, amongst the people, and suddenly Liam isn’t there next to him, his attention is elsewhere, and Niall is several steps ahead of them now, eyes darting across the crowds furiously, almost a panicked look in them, and what if Nick isn’t there?

Louis grabs tighter around his bag, the straps cutting into his palm almost, and he is slowly scanning the people around him, not wanting to be too quick, wanting to avoid the realisation that Nick hasn’t come for as long as possible.

People are passing him, happy people, people shining up when seeing their friends or their family, people hugging, kissing, people picking up kids and spinning them around, people waving signs that say ‘Welcome home!’ or ‘We’ve missed you!’, people are shouting, and Louis keeps walking, one foot in front of another, what if Nick isn’t there.

But then, then there’s someone that waves, and Louis squints, and it’s Harry, Harry’s waving at him, smiling broadly, hand straight up in the air with silver rings glittering, and there, there, next to him, is Nick, sunglasses on even though they’re inside, and Louis thinks, ‘What a douche,’ and he’s smiling so much, this strange movement of his mouth that sort of strains his skin, as though he’s forgotten how to do it for too long, and he might be running, he’s not sure, but Nick is there, Nick is there, he’s standing there, Nick is there.

And when he finally gets to them, he just melts into Nick, and it’s so fucking normal, so _right_ , and when he looks up at Nick, Nick’s taking off his glasses, and his eyes look tired, but yet they gleam just in that way they’re supposed to, and when Louis breathes in it’s as though he’s tasting again, and when he thinks about it, it’s as though he’s hearing and seeing again, as though all his senses have been muted, but now, now everything is as it should be again, and he can _feel_.

**Epilogue**

Harry posts a picture of them on Instagram, when they’re hugging, still at the airport, taken with lots of backlight so they mostly look like shapes, and writes ‘reunitedgram <3’ as the caption, and Louis comments ‘this is in absolutely no way me, I’m much taller then that’ but he screencaps it and uses it as his phone background for at least a month.

They come to apologise to each other so many times Louis suddenly breaks out in a grin and says ‘Okay, I’ll forgive you,’ which has Nick pouting, eyes glinting, and saying, ‘No, I forgive _you_ ,’ and it ends with all their sheets tangled around Louis’ feet and Nick’s head resting on Louis’ chest, where he sluggishly mumbles, ‘Okay, we’re both forgiven,’ and then presses another kiss to Louis’ collarbone. Louis’ eyes are closed when he nods his agreement, and he never wants to move from that spot again, he could stay there the rest of his life, he’s pretty sure.

They’re happy, most of the time. When they’re not, when Louis can’t sleep, children’s eyes dancing in his head, or when he’s talked to Niall on the phone and has that aching feeling that Niall isn’t himself, that he’s just putting on a show, or when Nick gets home from work, grumpy and frazzled and mad with himself for being in such a state, having been secretly reminding himself of how it had felt when Louis wasn’t there, how it perhaps could happen again, thinking so much of it he almost panics, as though he _wants_ to hurt himself with the thoughts, when they’re not happy for some reason or another, they just let themselves be sad, but try their very best to let the other know that they’re at least not alone. Not alone like before. Like they had been.

They have tea in the middle of the night, discussing what they should do with Harry and Zayn, feeling decades younger, and perhaps they will not ever actually execute their intricate plans, but it’s nice, just sitting in the half-lit kitchen with steaming tea mugs in front of them and half whisper – without reason – and smile together, planning, joking, and, yes, feeling so innocent, so excited about the entire world and its possibilities. Perhaps it’s just pretending, but when Louis thinks about it, the heat of the porcelain mug against his palms, Nick’s toes pressed against his leg under the table, and words, so many words, jumbled and frayed, laughter from deep down in their bellies, it doesn’t matter that it’s just pretending, because it’s safety, and it’s steadiness, and it’s dependable.

Nick tells Louis, one early morning, in a voice that’s hazy of sleep, right hand’s fingers curled loosely around Louis’ wrist, but with eyes that are open, so full of trust, so naked, that for weeks he weren’t home when Louis was gone, he couldn’t, he’d started to hate the house, and Louis doesn’t know what to say so he just kisses Nick all over, something deep in his stomach feeling as though it could fly away any second. When they have breakfast, later, he tries to sound cheeky when he suggests that they should shag in every room to make Nick like the house properly again, and he’s rather sure Nick hears how there’s an edge to his words, how he’s not only being mischievous, because Nick says, ‘As though you could get it up that many times; this is a large house, Tomlinson,’ but something in his eyes is grateful.

They do fuck in every room, and Nick gasps ‘I’m home, I’m home,’ into Louis’ mouth the last time he comes, and Louis thinks _I am too, and I don’t want to leave ever again._

**Author's Note:**

> just wanted to say, this was super hard for me to write, but i hope you'll like it!! x


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